Lie Awake
by Reine-de-Coeurs
Summary: One-shot collection. General dysfunction. Mrs Lovett's POV.


**Credit obviously to Stephen Sondheim and Hugh Wheeler. **

_This story was inspired by, but in no way based upon, the song 'Me Vs. Maradona Vs. Elvis' by Brand New._

_Lie Awake_

The keys jangle in the lock; I always did have the odd bit of trouble with that bloody thing. And it always _was _me as dealt with your door after you was gone away. There's a flush in me cheeks and I bend over the door so as not to let you see me hands trembling on the locks. I step in quick; been ever such a long time, it really has. You stand there in the threshold. I can hear you breathing. It's your eyes what gets me, like a shattered shard. I'm on fire, I really am, and just for you; but I know I've got to pace it slow with you. I ask you if you wouldn't like to come in.

After three hours and the odd few nips of gin, you're starting to look a little better, you are. You said you'd like to be alone, and I'm trying to keep away; you've got to know I really am. But I've got to wearing me knees out climbing up-stairs every half hour, knocking soft on the door and offering you things.

You changed. I half wonder if I changed like you have; but I know I'm much more like I was. Down-stairs, I fill crusts and sing to meself for the first time in a good few years. I smile; it's a dreadful morning outside, but today's got to be the most wonderful day. You always did like the mornings.

***

You think too much, you do. You think yourself into a stupor, taking all manner of liberties in your head. I try to do what I can to help; but it never seems like enough. I run me hands over your fore-head. I spend the first week thinking you've caught a sickness, on account of your skin always burning to the touch like you've got a raging fever. I ask if you're quite well; you say no. I ask if you're ill; you say no to that too. I ask if you'd like any-thing. You say no. I'll learn later, your skin will always burn. I'll watch you take whiskey like you used to take tea.

***

You hesitate quite the odd bit; you stand in so many thresholds. Funny, that; you send men to death with a swish of your wrist, but you still stand there in door-ways until I bid you come in. Which I always do. Me back's turned, some-times, and you don't never say a word, but I know it's _your_ eyes burning into the backs of me shoulders. I whip me head round quick, and you gaze round the room. Well, I know perfectly well what you mean by that, I do. I give you a quick nod and go to shut the window, snuff out the candles.

You don't never stay with me, but you're there for a while, you certainly are. You grip onto me back like I'm the only thing keeping you here; and later, in the bath, I have to spend ages scrubbing all the blood off me waist. I know perfectly well that you only come and have me on whims, dear. Well, one thing I'll say for you: you certainly have got a lot of whims, you have.

***

We're in town once, and you prove yourself. You give me your coat to hold while you're up on the stand. I gaze up at you, working your lovely trade. I'm the one standing in the crowd, smiling up at you and running me hands over the buttons on your coat, helping you back into it when you're done.

When you've got your five quid and one promise, it's done with and you smile in such a way as I can't tell precisely what's behind it. 'We've got to get back to the house now,' you tell me, and grip hard onto me arm.

'What; what is it?' I've got me head cocked and a crescent smile on me lips. What a peculiar man you are now; you certainly have got some strange whims.

Your hold on me arm tightens; you'll force me down the streets if you have to. 'Now,' you hiss from the back of your smile. 'Come.' I give way to your fancy, and we hurry down the side-streets. You get me through the doors, the shop sign flipped to 'Closed.' You shove me down gruff like on the parlour sofa, and spend all your victory on me.

***

I mean to save you; that's what I'm going to do. You might not see it now. I know how the rage takes your head and swirls it, makes you burn, makes you crack. But one day, you see, I'm going to save you. It won't be all at once, of course. But, cards all laid out, I'm the one as comes to help you; if you only knew it. Perhaps one day you'll notice; or perhaps one day you'll finish me. Either way, goodness knows, I mean to save you.

You've got to be the most shattered man I've ever met. 'There, there,' I tell you, and wind me hands round your shoulders, being ever so careful not to brush your back on the way. But me words don't reach your ears. When you're in a rage your eyes are veiled, and I'm not so sure you can even see. You certainly can't feel me touch, not when you're screaming like that; but that don't stop me sitting by your side. I'll hold you, love, until the whole world comes toppling down over us. Perhaps one day you'll notice me hand on your cheek.

***

I'm a love-struck, silly thing, always, when it comes round to you. You drum a blade against your knee and smile slow; and all sudden _I_ haven't got any more knees to stand on. Me finger-tips are locked on the edge of the counter, so as I won't fall over, until the sick heart-beat goes away. You could make me do any-thing at all.

I ask if you was listening; and you say yes, of course you was. Me eyes light, me lips burn. It's not that I'm really quite as silly as all that; it's just that you're the most important thing I've ever seen. I've got no choice but to put me faith in every absent, half-present quip you send me.

***

Just the one time, you waltz me round and round the blood-stained floor, but it may as well be a ball-room. You've got your fevered hands pressed into mine, and a smile all over me face. I'm hanging just on the edge of where we stand; and you're driving me over it. We sin, we blaze, we smell like smoke; and soon enough I'm burning.


End file.
